Night pressed against the dormitory windows, a living, breathing presence that enveloped the world beyond. Fog clung to the courtyard below, thick and suffocating, blurring the lamp posts into ghostly, quivering stars above. I tired to convince myself that the upper stacks had merely unsettled my nerves--old tomes, the whispers of seasoned archivists, age--old warning. Nothing beyond the realm of reason. Nothing tangible. 

Yet the weight in my stomach remained, a knotted dread that refused to dissipate. Not even after I closed my door and bolted it--twice, for good measure.

My chamber was modest yet tranquil. Stone walls enclosed me, a narrow bed anchored the room, and a desk sprawled with ink pots and dried quills insisted that all was as it should be. No lurking oddities. No sign of the bizarre. 

Until I glimpsed what lay on my pillow.

Another card--strinkingly identical in size and weight to the last, delicately wrapped in immaculate white cloth.

I stood transfixed in the doorway, my heart drumming against my ribcage. I had left nothing upon my pillow that morn. Only the steward possessed a spare key, and she never ascended the stairs after nightfall.

Then the air shifted--ever so slightly--like a breath warming cold glass. 

I approached with trepidation. The fabric was pristine, almost unnaturally brilliant, a chilling contrast to the card's dark, sultry sheen as I unwrapped it.

This one was unlike the first.

Where the initial card bore my name inscribed in elegant script, this one had a message scrawled across its surface--thin, jagged strokes that sliced too sharply, as if birthed from haste or dread.

And it bore my handwriting.

"STOP LOOKING."

My throat went dry, a desert in an instant. I flipped the card, searching for relief. But the reverse was plain--nothing by way of assurance. Yet, when I angled it toward the lamp, subtle shadows quivered beneath the surface--like dark secrets shifting silently beneath a placid tide.

With a trembling hand, I deposited the card on my desk and retreated further back than before. 

My thoughts ricocheted through rationalities--pranks, forgery, the cruel jest of a fellow archivist with access to my penmanship. Yet none of these explanations conformed. In the Clayra, none would dare meddle with the objects associated with the mirror. 

Then a new thought slinked into my mind like a serpent. 

What if the mirror had glimpsed my handwriting before I even registered it?

I clenched my fist, striving to steady my breaths. Panic--an antidote to reason, answers eluding my frantic grasp. Panic draws attention, especially from beings that listen through the veil of glass. 

I perched at the desk, scrutinizing the card once more. My handwriting stared back at me--indelible and distinct. The slant, the pressure, the way the undulating curve of the S dipped ever so slightly lower. It bore my signature. 

Yet, I had not penned it.

A low hum filled the suffocating air--almost imperceptible, akin to ethereal fingers trailing softly against a frost-bitten windowpane. I held my breath, entranced.

The sound swelled, morphing into a whisper. A breath--a gentle calculated exhalation. 

"...Vaerin..."

A chill coursed through my veins, solidifying my very essence. I spun sharply toward the door, dread trebling in my heart. 

But no--the whisper had not emanated from the threshold. It drifted ominously from the desk. 

From the gleaming card, polished like obsidian.

I retreated, my back meeting the cold wall behind me. The whisper returned--an insidious etching of syllables seeping through the metal.

This time, it dared not utter my name. Instead it muttered:

"...you shouldn't be here..."

The lamp flickered in a staccato of shadows. 

I dashed across the room, flinging the card face down, banishing it beneath a pile of dusty tomes. The whisper dissipated in an instant. 

Silence enveloped the chamber--a thick, oppressive stillness that rendered the very air heavy with foreboding. It listened. 

I collapsed onto the bed's edge, burying my face in trembling hands. 

Which terrified me more--that something was fashioning a warning...or that something sought to claim me?

Outside the window, the courtyard lamps began to dim one by one. Not flickering. Simply...extinguishing, as though some dark shade passed by, snuffing out each flicker of life.

Drawing nearer. Methodically. Unhurried.

I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering a prayer chased by doubt. Not for the gods. Not for the Calyra. But to anything lingering that might still listen, veiled from the mirror's cruel reflection.